Opportunities
by iolre
Summary: Why. Won't. It. WORK. Sherlock is angry and frustrated at a case that simply won't come together. He has all the pieces, yet cannot make them fit. He knows what will make it better - a single vial, pulsing through his veins. Yet there's something stopping him. Someone. Sherlock/John, angsty fluff.


A/N: Some Johnlock fluff. Technically part of a 100 Themes challenge I'm participating in with a friend (and it'll be posted there, too). Also mildly angsty, but sweet as well.

* * *

Sherlock threw himself onto the couch, ignoring John's presence. There was something there - something there, something he couldn't see. What was wrong with him! He growled in frustration and flipped over onto his back, his fingertips rubbing frustrated patterns into his temple. "I'm missing something," he snarled at the air. Part of him heard John sigh and walk into the kitchen, flipping on the kettle as he did so (making tea, then - unnerved by Sherlock's behavior, natural response). They had been on the trail of a particularly vicious serial killer for the past three weeks and the victim they had just found had provided what Sherlock was certain was the last few pieces of the puzzle.

Yet there was so much distracting him, cluttering up his mind with inane thoughts and questions. Three weeks, one day, seven hours, forty three minutes, and nine seconds ago, he had kissed John. On the lips. And John had kissed him back. Sherlock groaned, lifting his head and dropping it back down on the edge of the couch with a thunk. No matter what he did, no matter what he tried, he could not shove the thoughts pertaining that event to the back of his mind palace. They continued to pop up at inappropriate moments. No need to give Donovan ammunition if he emerged from a crime scene with an erection. He would never heard the end of it.

The worst problem was that he knew what would make it better. All it took was a brief text, some cash, and a single vial that he could draw up in a syringe and depress into his veins. The chemical would flow, his neurotransmitters rising to meet the challenge, ideas and theories coming quickly and without abandon. The thoughts that had been plaguing him would go to the wayside and the answer would come to him, clear as day. It was what he needed, what he wanted. His body vibrated with the thought that what it so desired was so close to coming to fruition. But he couldn't. He couldn't send the text. Could not bring himself to grab his phone.

What frustrated Sherlock the most was that he had no idea what was stopping him. "Sherlock?" John stood in the kitchen (slightly out of view - nervous), a mug of tea in his hands. He walked over to the coffee table (anxious, limping slightly - concerned, something unreadable - what is it?!) and carefully placed the mug down on the table. "Some tea, if you're up to drinking it." He turned around and walked back towards the kitchen (getting his own mug). Sherlock's eyes zeroed in on his arse. It was firm, muscle still there from the military and from chasing criminals around London with - Sherlock lifted his head and let it fall. He was not supposed to be having those thoughts. Perhaps a concussion was in order. That would make him stop thinking.

Then his mind went towards the image of John leaning close to lecture him about safety, the image of tanned fingertips sliding over alabaster skin - "AGH!" Sherlock cried out in frustration, flipping himself into a ball and scrunching his eyes tightly shut. Unconsciousness would be preferable. "John, bring me my phone." He extended a hand and then realized what was wrong with that plan. "On the other hand, don't." John giving him his phone would likely involve skin to skin contact (would he use it as an excuse for a caress?) and with the way Sherlock's mind (and libido - hopefully John wouldn't notice) was going, that was very much a bad idea.

When Sherlock stood up, John was standing near the counter, his own cuppa in his hands and a bemused expression on his face. There was fondness lingering there, affection present in the crinkle of his eyes. Forcing his thoughts away from John he dug his phone out of the pocket of his Belstaff and stomped back to the couch, ignoring the slight smile on John's face at his childish actions (he finds them amusing - endearing, almost). The text to one of his oldest and most reliable dealers was sent in seconds. He needed the clarity, the rush the drug provided.

John wanted things. He wanted Sherlock (evidence in the kiss, the fondness with which he spoke to Sherlock, looked at him - the lingering touches, the soft smiles). Neither had mentioned the kiss afterwards, yet it had been on Sherlock's mind constantly. For the first two weeks it had been easier to ignore. The serial killer left quite a bit of evidence behind (not even Anderson could botch some of it up, although he had given it a fair try) and Sherlock had raced off on several promising leads. Despite everything he did, he came up with nothing. It was immensely frustrating. Now that they had stagnated - nothing new, confirming that Sherlock had all the pieces (just couldn't them together) - his mind had gone on a rampage to sabotage him. It was immensely frustrating.

"I'm going out," Sherlock declared, standing up. He checked his clothes (not that the dealer would care, no one did in that part of town, but going out in his dressing gown would alert Mycroft to his plans) and grabbed his coat. "Don't wait up."

"Sherlock." John's voice was exasperated. "I'm coming with. Get a new lead?"

John blinked when Sherlock swirled around and lifted his head. "You're not coming with me."

"Damn right I am," John growled. His posture had tensed and his eyes were narrowed (he knows something's wrong). Damn him for being observant at the most inappropriate of times. Damn John Watson. "You can't chase criminals by yourself, Sherlock."

"I just need some air...?" Sherlock offered. It was an excuse he had heard John use several times. He hoped that John didn't notice the questioning intonation and swore inside his head. Giving John what he hoped was a winning smile (worked on Molly and she adores him - would it work with John?) he strode towards the door. Sherlock made it down to the bottom of the steps before he heard the door to 221B open (stopped to grab his jacket, then - anticipating being out for a while) and he broke into a run. If he was lucky, he would be out of John's eyesight before the army doctor made it down the stairs.

Luck was on his side and he had made it into an alleyway before John made it downstairs. Inwardly Sherlock swore. If that didn't make his behavior appear even more suspicious, he had no idea what would. Not that it mattered. All he needed was that one meeting, that one vial, and things would be back in place. He could stop thinking about John, stop thinking about - about kissing and tanned skin and lips and - stop. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed forcefully in and out, bending his treacherous body to his will. Meeting his dealer with an erection was most definitely out.

Thankfully the location was close. Careful to avoid CCTV cameras (John didn't have Mycroft's contact information - Sherlock deleted it each and every morning before John woke up, but being seen without John while on a case would arouse suspicion), he made his way towards the small alcove his dealer preferred. Moments later, with two small slights of hand, the vial he had desperately craved was in his hand. He clenched his fist around it, comforted by the feel of the metal lid and the glass. "The way I like it?" he asked, careful to keep his voice low to prevent being overheard. A sharp nod from the dealer and Sherlock was on his way, slipping the vial into one of the larger pockets so that it could not be seen through the thick wool.

All that was left was a few simple steps. Head back to 221B. Find his syringe kit hidden behind the mantle. Wait until John went to - Sherlock's brain froze. John. John would be there, he would see Sherlock. Sherlock, high on cocaine, his pupils blown wide, his movements jerky, erratic yet his mind clearer than ever, the deductions amazing. Yet there would be no 'Brilliant!' or 'Amazing!' Nothing but a silent, guilt-inducing stare. If John even stayed. Suddenly aware that his body had froze along with his mind, he shifted so that he was hidden in an alleyway, his mind working to its top capabilities.

They had never talked about Sherlock's history. Sherlock suspected that John had learned a few things from Lestrade (the two often went out to pubs together - male bonding time, boring, yet necessary for John's well being), but he had never directly asked Sherlock about what he had done. Would he be disgusted by Sherlock's drug usage? He was a doctor. He saw the outcomes of these drugs, saw what they did to people. He would leave Sherlock, that much was certain.

Pulling the vial out of his coat pocket he stared at it. Stared at the fluid inside, clear and harmless looking but with the power to destroy all that he had worked for. Leaning back against the wall of the small road he let his head tilt back, his mind flashing back through the memories. John staring at him and then breaking into a wide grin, proclaiming something 'Brilliant!' or 'Amazing!' and sending Sherlock's stomach into twisted knots. The crinkles at the corner of his eyes when he laughed or smiled. The soft smile he wore while he looked at Sherlock when he thought Sherlock wasn't watching him. The gentle touches of John's fingertips to Sherlock's arm the last time Sherlock was injured. The tenderness of his lips and how they had moved under Sherlock's when Sherlock had kissed him. He felt warmth unfurl in his belly and he clenched his teeth to avoid groaning as the memories assaulted him.

He couldn't lose that. How could he - he couldn't. Sherlock sat where he was, uncertain of how to proceed. The logical choice was to destroy the vial (easy to do without arousing suspicion, yet impossible to do without attracting attention on the CCTV cameras), then to go home to John. John, who was all too perceptive of Sherlock's moods and emotions. Would he even be able to hide what he had done? What he had been so close to doing? And the case - the four dead women (stupid enough to trust the man who killed them, yet Sherlock felt for them all the same, although he never told John) - he failed them. He couldn't help them like this, his mind muddled by so many thoughts. He was at a dead end.

"Sherlock?" John panted (he'd been running - looking for someone - looking for him?). Sherlock's body convulsed in a shudder and he drew farther back into himself. His knees were pulled up to his chest, his head buried in his jacket (damn his curls - recognisable anywhere, Mycroft must have seen him on the CCTV somehow, or had someone trailing him). "There you are." (That couldn't be a smile he heard in John's voice, nor tenderness, or affection - impossible). Sherlock heard footsteps, felt them stop not far from where he was crouched into a ball. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest (fear, adrenaline - fight or flight, flight flight flight).

Standing up as fast as he could Sherlock made to dart past John, only to underestimate how close the army doctor was standing. Within seconds he felt his wrist grabbed and he was spun around and pinned to the wall, his arms pinned up near his head. Arms. Hands. Sherlock stifled a moan. The vial was still in his hand - the damned vial, the damned vial that would ruin everything. "Where are you going?" John demanded. Sherlock kept his gaze as far away from John as he could manage. He hoped the fear he felt at his situation was at least kept off his face. Hopefully he wasn't that incompetent.

Sherlock felt the air shift as John's eyes went to the ball of Sherlock's fist. Imperceptibly the hand tightened further, the knuckles white around the vial's contents. The hands on his wrists softened and one arm slid around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock stiffened as the touch sent electricity sparking up his spine and sent his brain into a spiral of chaos. "Let's go home," John murmured, leading him carefully as Sherlock attempted to not stumble over his own feet. It wasn't making sense. John was supposed to be angry with him. He didn't know what was in Sherlock's hand, then. Yet John was smart - he assumed, if he didn't know.

The walk back to Baker Street wasn't far. Sherlock hadn't gone much more than half a mile (his dealers were close - wasn't too odd for him to visit them if he needed), but it felt like forever. What kept him going was John's gentle hand (warm, not pressuring, soft and encouraging, not guilt-ridden, comforting) on the small of his back, guiding him forward. They had reached the door before Sherlock had been able to get his mind under a semblance of control, fragile though it was.

John's hand left Sherlock's back as soon as they were through the door to their flat. It felt strangely cold (John's hand wasn't that warm - loss of affection, then, loss of feeling). Without a word Sherlock tugged off his coat (awkward, vial still clenched in hand - what to do with vial - god) and settled in his armchair, his legs tucked up against his chest (vial clenched in his fist, arms wrapped securely around legs, face as blank as possible - defenseless, please don't hurt me). "Sherlock." John's voice was soft, tender (he wants to talk - talk about what? he's leaving - got to be it, wants to break it gently - contrasts with his demeanor - only option). "Look at me."

"No." Sherlock's voice was quiet and it sounded hurt and weak and he hated it the moment it came out of his mouth. It sounded small, it sounded like him as a child when - when...his mind stuttered and failed, the memory blank. Deletion, then. The memory was gone, the feelings intact. Incomplete attempt to wipe something painful from his memory. Sherlock heard John make a painful noise in his throat and wondered what expression was on his face. He buried his head farther in his lap, hiding it (John can't see it. Can't see him being weak. He was not 'Brilliant' or 'Amazing' now. Merely broken).

Movement - John came closer, settling down on the floor next to Sherlock's armchair (hurts him - slight grimace in the way he moves, bad for his leg). "Sherlock." Again, his name. Why did John enjoy saying it? (His voice caresses the consonants, the vowels in turn.) A gentle touch on Sherlock's chin, a finger (rough - his trigger finger, then) lifted Sherlock's head. Nothing could bring him to meet John's gaze (shrink away from his touch - he's going to leave, why doesn't he just do it, he's making it worse). "I'm not leaving."

That was enough to send Sherlock's head jerking back, lifting his eyes to meet John's, startled like a deer. "Why not?" Not the right question, not the wrong question. A question. Petulant. Questioning.

"Open your hand." John's fingers tugged at Sherlock's, the clenched fist resting between John's steady palms. Painfully Sherlock unfurled his fingers, dreading the moment John saw its contents. The man was so good at keeping his face unreadable, even to Sherlock (years of military habit, good at dealing with those he disliked). He felt the vial removed from his palms, saw John regard it carefully. That damned mask. What was he thinking? Was he disappointed? Why wasn't he leaving? "I'm proud of you."

If Sherlock had been an undignified peasant, his mouth would have fallen open in shock. As he was indeed a dignified Holmes, he settled for staring at John with his eyes wider than he thought humanely possible before attempting to cover for his actions with a snort and trying to hide his face back in his lap like a petulant child. "None of that, now." Firm fingers on his chin kept him from completing the action as desired. (Proud? What could he be proud of? Sherlock had fallen, fallen hard, bought drugs and had been this close to using them. To injecting them into his veins, to sending him spiraling, to flying, to...) "Sherlock," John said softly. "Look at me." The same request as before, but Sherlock lifted his head this time, met his soft, searching gaze.

Whatever John saw sent pain flickering across his face before he schooled it back into its stoic expression, warm and soft like butterscotch or caramel (sand and warm deserts, comforting, warming - waiting?). "I can't see it," Sherlock snarled, his vitriol back and directed at himself. "I have all the clues, all the puzzle pieces, yet I cannot put them together. My mind is - muddled! And it's your fault." Sherlock glared at John (he's not mad - his lip is quirking - is he amused? Why is he amused? None of this is funny? Is it?).

"Why is it muddled?" John asked patiently. Pointedly Sherlock looked down at John's fingers and then back up to John's lips and then his eyes. John lifted an eyebrow. "You kissed me, you know."

"You kissed me back," Sherlock muttered.

"That would be the point of kissing," John pointed out amicably.

"I can't think about anything else. All I can think about is your skin and how different it is, how things feel so warm when you touch me or kiss me or I even think about it." Sherlock let out a frustrated groan, his hands on his head, ruffling his curls. "I need clarity, I need speed." He looked longingly at the vial in John's hand.

"But you didn't take it. I know you had the time. I called Mycroft right after you left but even then it took me a while to find you." John's look was appraising, examining Sherlock and his attributes at the most basic level (what was he looking for? What did he see? Was it good? Bad?).

"I couldn't." Sherlock's voice was a murmur. "You would leave, and..." he trailed off, miserable. "Your place is here." There was more, and Sherlock knew it, but attempting to put those feelings into words left him feeling like he had sandpaper on his tongue and down his trachea. They simply wouldn't come and it was painful to try.

"With you," John clarified. Sherlock dipped his head slightly in a nod. "I wouldn't leave, you know." Sherlock snorted his disbelief and turned his head away. "I would be disappointed. But I don't think I could leave." Slowly John trailed a finger down the side of Sherlock's face, tracing his cheekbone and his jawbone in turn. "I'm going to try something, okay?" Sherlock looked at him, skeptical, yet nodded all the same.

Sherlock inhaled sharply as he felt soft, warm lips touch his. It was like there was fire racing underneath his skin, electrifying and frightening at the same time. His mind whirled, overwhelmed and underwhelmed by the touch and the caress at the same time. John's hands were gripping his wrists gently, his thumbs caressing Sherlock's pale skin. It was then that Sherlock felt the last puzzle slide into place and the solution emerged. He pulled back and hopped over the side of the couch, the vial forgotten in the frenetic race to get the information distributed. His hand flew as he texted Lestrade and grabbed his jacket. "I've got it, John! I know who did it! The gardener." Sherlock shook his head, curls flying as he darted about the flat. Through the confusion had come clarity and things made sense again. He could explore how John's touch (and lips) made things clearer later. He had a murderer to catch.

John's eyes crinkled and his face lit up as he smiled at Sherlock, at the man he always knew would come through for him. "Brilliant."


End file.
